A Scandal in Academia
by StrangeBlaze
Summary: To Shannon Holmes he was never quite THE man...A Holmes and Watson for the 21st Century. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I thank Arthur Conan Doyle for the inspiration. It deviates, I promise. Anything you recognize, I don't own but love shamelessly. A Scandal in Academia 

**Chapter One**

To Shannon Holmes he was never quite _the_ man. I never heard her say his name in that way. She certainly thought highly of him and held him in a much higher regard than the rest of his sex. However, she definitely did not feel any emotion near to love for Ian Adams. Most emotions, and that one in particular, were in direct contradiction to her cold, precise, but abundantly intelligent mind. She was, in my opinion, a perfect reasoning and observing machine, but as a lover, she would have been utterly out of her element. She never spoke of the so-called "softer passions", save with a vicious snort or a scowl. They were an excellent way to find the reasons for people's motives and actions, but as an objective observer she could not allow these intrusions into her own personality. Doing so would cast doubts upon her mental results that would be almost more disturbing than a crack in her eyeglasses or a devastating computer virus. And yet there was Ian Adams, of worthy and respectable memory.

I had not seen very much of Holmes lately. Our classes drifted us away from each other. We would occasionally pass each other in the morning on the way to coffee, or out the door, but I never got much more than a mumble or a nod from her, as she was most definitely not a morning person. I spent most days cavorting through Chaucer and Shakespeare before adjourning to the Court Street Café for a latté and a laugh with classmates, or running to the library for a study group session.

Holmes though, who loathed every bit of camaraderie and collegiate alliances with her entire soul, would, after class, remain in her dorm room in Brett Hall, buried in her old books, and alternating from day to day between marijuana and ambition. From time to time I heard vague rumors of her doings—ejecting a too-aggressive date from an unwilling freshman girl's room (as well as a loud beau from a too-enthusiastic sophomore's dorm adjacent to mine), discovering just who had kidnapped the school's mascot from his cage (referred to on campus as "the curious incident of the bobcat in the nighttime"), a consultation on the matter of the Atkinson twins' eventual expulsion for making pipe-bombs in their room. Beyond these signs of her activities, which I learned from second-hand accounts and gossip in the elevators, I knew next to nothing of my friend and resident assistant.

One night in early October I was returning from a particularly heinous essay exam when I got an overwhelming urge to go to Holmes' room before retiring to my own. Her room was brightly lit, and, even as I looked up before entering the main doors of our building, I saw her tall stark figure pass twice in a black silhouette against the mini-blinds. She was pacing the room quickly, brusquely, with her head sunk upon her chest and her hands clasped behind her. I took this as a good sign. Knowing her as well as I did made me a great interpreter of her moods and habits; her attitude and stance gave them away to me. She was at work again. She had come out of her drug-addled idleness and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I took the elevator to our floor, deposited my belongings in my own room, and knocked on the door of 221.

She did not rush to the door and embrace me; indeed, if she had, I might have placed my hand upon her forehead to test her for some kind of brain fever. Still, I think she was happy to see me. With no words spoken but with a fleeting half-grin she waved me to the futon, tossed across a pack of cigarettes, and indicated the Cokes in the refrigerator. Then she stood before the window and looked at me in her distinct, introspective manner.

"Scholarship suits you," she observed. "I think, Watson, that you have lost five pounds since I last saw you."

"Four," I replied.

"Actually it looks like a little bit more. And writing again, I observe. You didn't tell me that you'd been writing articles about us for the _Messenger_."

"Then how do you know?"

"I see it; I deduce it. How also do I know that you have not been eating much, have stopped seeing Mark Morgan, and that you are getting low on funds?"

"Holmes, you're too much," I said. "If you had lived in Salem a couple of hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake. It's true I haven't really had time to go to the cafeteria lately, and my mom hasn't sent me any money recently, but I can't see how you figured all that out. And it's true that Mark and I decided to take a break, but how did you know?"

She chuckled to herself and picked at a hangnail on one long finger before answering.

"It's really easy," she said. "My eyes tell me that, not only have you lost weight, but also your clothes are getting to be a lot looser on you. You've tightened a notch on your belt. They are also distinctly wrinkled and—" here she sniffed, loudly. "—a bit ripe, indicating your shortage of money. You have not been able to buy extra food or to take a trip to the Laundromat, because you can't afford it. And, knowing you, you have been spending so many hours at the library that you have missed mealtimes—I certainly wouldn't know because I do not attend them regularly myself."

I snorted.

"You can also see my continuing deduction. You have become very poor in your hygiene habits—also a result of your forgetful mother being remiss in sending you your monthly checks (you really ought to call her once in a while, Watson)—thus causing you quite a bit of embarrassment, and if I may say so, shame. So you have temporarily broken with Mr. Morgan, because you don't want him to see you in such a state. I have not smelled his particular brand of cologne in our hallways for several weeks."

I could literally feel the furious blush burning on my cheeks.

"You know you can borrow some of my clothes," she said, with a grin. "I'm sure I've got something around here that would fit you."

I didn't doubt it. Her personal clothing, though it might fit me in the waist, would be yards too long in the legs and arms and much too small in the hips and chest. She had scads of clothing in closets and trunks shoved into every corner and crevice of the room that was not taken up with books or some strange sort of paraphernalia. I could certainly find something that would fit.

"Thank you, Holmes. I'll look. But how did you know about my articles? I haven't even seen you to tell you."

"Have you forgotten that I read every newspaper in this town, daily, as well as the school's online blog and the gossip columns?"

I couldn't help laughing at the easy way she explained her process of deduction. "I always feel so dumb after you explain this stuff to me. Every time you do one of these observations it always confuses me until you explain how you did it. But Holmes, your eyes are way worse than mine."

"Oh, sure they are. Thank god for contacts," she replied, lighting a cigarette and throwing herself down into an inflatable chair. "But you _see_, not observe. There's a huge difference. Uh, I'm sure you've seen all the doors to the rooms that lead up this corridor to mine?"

"Oh, all the time."

"How often?"

"Well, every day."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many!" I exclaimed. "Jeez, I don't know."

"Yeah! You haven't _observed_. But you have _seen_. Now, I know that there are fourteen doors going down the hall leading up to this room at the end, seven on each side, because I have both seen _and _observed. By the way, since you're always so interested in these little events that come my way, and since you so enjoy writing about our little adventures, you might find this intriguing."

She stretched over to hand me a pink post-it that had been stuck to her chair. "Someone stuck it to my door," said she.

The note was undated, unsigned, and had no address, e-mail or otherwise, on it.

It said: "Hi! I'll be stopping by tonight around 8. I have a little problem I'd like to ask you about. I heard about how you helped the dean in all that tax evasion garbage, so I know I can trust you! Please be there if you can—and don't think I'm weird if I'm wearing a cape or something—I'll be coming from play practice."

"What do you think it means?" I asked.

"I don't have enough info yet. You should never try to form a theory before you have all the relevant information," she replied. "But the note itself. What do you _deduce_ from it?"

I carefully examined both the writing and the paper.

"Well, it was a girl who wrote it," I said, trying to use my friend's own methods. "The writing is really flowery and light. And—eww—she dots her I's with hearts. The paper's kind of stiff, too." That's a little strange."

"Good job. It's not strange though, it's particular," Holmes replied. "Hold it up to the light."

I took it to her desk lamp, and saw the outlines of a large cat-like thing, a megaphone, and what was apparently supposed to be a pom-pom embedded in the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"Your future visitor is a cheerleader?"

"Excellent," she said. Her eyes sparkled and she sent up a great blue cloud from her cigarette. "And who, Watson, on our floor is a cheerleader?"

I had to think. "Uh, that little blonde at the end of the hall—what's-her-name?"

"Tiffany."

"Yeah, Tiffany. Who else? Oh! That freshman right next door to me, the really pretty red-headed one with the green eyes. My friend Christina hates her—Wendy!"

"Exactly. So which of them is it?"

Um. "I have no idea, Holmes."

"Oh Watson, what have I said? All you have to do is _think_. To see and observe. The note said that the person was coming from play practice."

I thought for a moment. Tiffany was a tiny thing, a cute, athletic blonde with a perpetual tan. I had spoken to her once or twice but didn't know much about her other than that she seemed quite shy. She did not speak much to anyone on our floor; generally all of us were friendly and I was actually a reasonably close friend of one of the other girls, Christina Tanaka. Though Tiffany was a considerably more social person than Shannon Holmes, she mostly kept to herself. In all, she did not seem to be the type to be a thespian.

"It's Wendy," I said quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"Um…yes?"

"Really, Watson, I thought it would be easier for you than me. I have minimal contact with these girls unless they come pounding on the door for some damn thing or another, but it seems that I have _observed_ somewhat more of their habits than you have."

"So it's not Wendy?"

She stubbed out her cigarette. "No, and I will tell you why. You yourself did remark upon how pretty Wendy is. Surely you can see that you wouldn't be the only one."

I stared at her, trying to imagine what she was trying to say. Then it hit me, and again I felt stupid. "Wendy's got a boyfriend, or _boyfriends_."

"Ye-es. If you would remember correctly, both you and Christina have even told me about them coming in at all hours. If you'd search your brain, you'd recall like all the rest of us _unfortunates_ on this hall, the sounds of, ah, _love_—" she almost spat this word out—"that we _frequently_ hear coming from her room."

Now I felt like a complete idiot. I had whined and complained to Holmes more than once about Wendy's nocturnal activities, and I knew that the other girls on our floor had, as well. She was, to be frank, the slut of Brett Hall and I couldn't believe I had forgotten. Apparently that rumor about Holmes physically kicking someone's boyfriend out of the dorm was true, if her attitude was any indication. I did not feel this was the time to ask.

"So, it can't be Wendy because she spends the majority of her time in other, um, pursuits of pleasure, and doesn't really have time to be in plays." I sounded dejected even to myself.

A quick smile graced Holmes' marred features. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Watson. You've been preoccupied, I know. Who cares about the soap operas of Brett Hall when the escapades of Shannon Holmes are begging to be written?"

"Ha, ha. Do you really hate them that much?"

"Of course not, Watson, dear. I just wish you'd stick more to the facts of the cases instead of trying to sensationalize things in order to make a better story. I'm sure your readers would appreciate knowing how it really is to sit for hours in a car waiting for some bloke to come out of a Jiffy Lube."

"God, the Collins case! That was the most tedious thing ever, Holmes! I thought I was going to die on the spot from hours of inhaling your stinking second-hand smoke fumes. That was so _boring_."

"We got him though, didn't we? Ah, it doesn't matter. Here's our visitor." She sprang up to get the door. I had not even heard any footsteps approaching.

"Do you want me to go?" I asked as the knock sounded.

"No! You know I'm lost without my—uh, my _Watson_, and you can probably give some advice, too. Stay right there."

"Come in!" said Holmes brightly, as she opened the door.

A girl entered who could hardly have been more than five feet two inches in height, with a tiny waist and short, muscled legs. I am taller than a lot of women I have known, my own mother and Christina especially, but Holmes generally dwarfs every female she encounters and a lot of men, actually. Tiffany was no exception. Holmes looked like some kind of freakish giant compared to her.

Tiffany was wearing some sort of 19th-Century gown, with puffed sleeves, a lace neck and collar, and an ankle-length skirt. It was a deep burgundy, with stitches of black. From the way she was walking, she was unused to the material, the length of the fabric, and the obviously tight corset she was wearing underneath all the layers of the dress. She almost went sprawling as she came through the door, but Holmes caught her arm and prevented the accident.

"I'm sorry! You got my note?" Tiffany asked, in her high-pitched, little girl's voice.

"Yes," Holmes replied. "Sit down." She indicated the futon where I was still sitting.

"Oh! Hi, Jordan. I wasn't expecting to see you there." Tiffany turned back to my friend. "Um, Sha—I mean, _Holmes_, I kind of wanted to talk to you alone."

I started to stand but Holmes walked behind me and put a hand on my shoulder to push me down. "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Watson. If not, you know where the door is."

"_Okay_…but do you both promise not to tell anyone about this?"

"I promise," Holmes said, not even bothering to hide her amusement.

"So do I," I said.

Apparently satisfied, Tiffany started talking immediately. "Sorry about this outfit. I should have changed first, but I wanted to get over here right away from play practice. I'm playing Mary in _The Sign of Four_—"

Tiffany obviously did not understand Holmes' quick bark of laughter, so she went silent as she settled in beside me, smoothing out her long skirts.

Holmes sank down into her inflatable chair, which gave an audible hiss, closing her eyes as she arranged her long legs beneath her.

Tiffany glanced at me in surprise at this lazy, uninterested figure. She had probably been told about some of Holmes' energetic exploits (and had maybe read some of my accounts) and so likely expected an enthusiastic response to her story. Holmes slowly reopened her eyes and looked impatiently at her tiny client.

"If you would please tell us your story," she remarked. "We could help you much _faster_."

"Oh, but, it's just so _embarrassing_! Nobody can find out about this."

Holmes waved a hand in the air, closing her eyes again.

Tiffany sighed. "Well there's this boy—"

"There usually is," Holmes said, dryly.

"—that I kind of dated for a little while. His name is Ian Adams. I don't know if you know him?"

"Grab a yearbook, would you, Watson?" Holmes asked, without opening her eyes.

I went to Holmes' bookcase and took out the newest yearbook. "He's a junior this year," Tiffany informed me.

I handed the book to Holmes, who flipped to find Ian Adams' name in the index. "Let me see," she said. "Hmm…some track and field, dean's list, drama club—I would assume that you and this, ah, _boy_ exchanged some explicit letters, maybe some e-mails or IM's, and now you want them back?"

"Yeah! But how—"

"Did he ask you to marry him?"

"No, of course not," Tiffany said, with a frown.

"So you have no ring? And no kind of legal documents or prenuptial agreements or anything?"

"Nooo-"

"Then what is such a big deal?" Holmes demanded. "I don't think this chap can use the letters to blackmail you; how would he prove they were real?"

"My handwriting?"

"Pfft. He forged it."

"I used my own stationery."

"Stolen."

"How about e-mails and IM's?"

"He hacked in and got your password."

"My picture?"

"Photoshopped it."

"We're both in it. And unless it was a really good, professionally well-done manipulation…"

Holmes sat up. "Ooh. Now that's very bad. You were really…indiscreet?"

Tiffany sighed again. "We were drunk. I was pretty nuts."

"You've really…compromised yourself?"

"Yes, it was totally stupid. I was only a freshman."

"You've got to get it back, then," Holmes said.

"I've tried!" Tiffany cried.

"You'll have to pay for it—probably a whole lot."

"He won't sell it!"

"Well, steal it!" Holmes exclaimed.

"I've already tried five times!" Tiffany wailed. "I had some frat friends break into his dorm and ransack it. My friends went through his bookbag in class once. I even got into his car! There was no sign of it."

Holmes laughed. "This is quite an attractive little dilemma." I cannot be sure, but I swear she actually winked at me.

"Oh, but it's really serious!" Tiffany moaned.

"Apparently. What's he going to do with this picture, anyway?"

"Completely ruin my life! I'm getting married next summer, to Claude Lothman."

"Not Lothman, as in Lothman's Department Store?" I asked.

"Yes," Tiffany replied, glancing at me as if she had just remembered I was there. In fact, she probably had.

"I'm sorry, who?" Holmes asked, with one eyebrow raised.

For all her talk about observation and deduction and all the newspapers and crappy tabloids she read, sometimes she had no clue when it came to current events and she certainly had no idea and did not care about the society pages. "They're extremely prestigious," I explained. "Super, mega-rich, 'old money' family. Kind of like the Midwest Kennedys, without, you know, the politics and the women and the murders and stuff. They own the fourth largest department store chain in the upper 48 states."

"Third largest," Tiffany corrected me. "Claude's father is very powerful, obviously, but he's also very strict. He's not thrilled that we're getting married in the first place, and this picture—"

"And Ian Adams?" Holmes asked.

"Threatens to send it to them! And he'll totally do it, without a doubt. He's got a soul of-of-"

"Steel?" Holmes suggested, flashing teeth at me.

"Of _titanium_. He's absolutely gorgeous but completely ruthless."

"Are you sure he hasn't sent it already?" I asked.

"Yes. He said he would send it the day that our engagement announcement is in the paper. That's Friday."

Holmes yawned. "Oh, well, that means we have three days left. That's good, because I have some other things I need to do. You'll be around, right?"

"Yeah, if I'm not in class or my room, I'm at cheering or play practice."

"Then I'll let you know what's going on."

"Great!" Tiffany squealed.

"And, um, about payment?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, sure." Tiffany whipped out a Hello Kitty checkbook from somewhere in her skirts and wrote a check for Holmes. Holmes wrote her a receipt in a small notebook.

"Which dorm does Adams live in?" Holmes asked.

"Brion," Tiffany answered. Holmes wrote it down.

"One more question," she said. "This picture is…graphic?"

"Yeaaaah," Tiffany replied. "A little."

"Hmm. Well, good night, Tiffany. I think we'll have some good news for you."

Tiffany bounced off down the hall, seeming to float off on her voluminous skirts.

Holmes sat back down in her chair, shaking her head as she did so. "One would think," she said, "that in this enlightened age, a girl would know better than to get herself embroiled in such a situation. Of course, she probably thinks she can buy her way out of whatever bad scrapes she get into." She waved the check in her fingers.

There was silence for a moment, until Holmes came out of the funk she seemed to be sinking into. I did not know what she was thinking about, but I suspected it had less to do with Tiffany "embroiling herself in such a situation" and more to do with Holmes' own personal issues, of which she had many, of which she would never talk about.

She did smile briefly at me. "I think I will say goodnight to you too, Watson. If you'll come over here tomorrow at three, I'd like to discuss this more with you then."

"Quite a _scandal_, isn't it Holmes?" I teased as I walked out the door.

"Quite so, _my dear Watson_," she smiled, glancing briefly at the framed poster of Basil Rathbone in _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ that adorned one wall of her room. "I may have to dust off my deerstalker for this one."


	2. Chapter 2

14

Disclaimer: I thank Arthur Conan Doyle for the inspiration. It deviates, I promise. Anything you recognize, I don't own but love shamelessly.

A Scandal in Academia 

**Chapter Two**

I was back in Brett Hall at exactly 3 pm the next afternoon, but Holmes wasn't back yet. Another R.A. told me that she'd left for class at 8 that morning. I sat on the floor in front of her door, fully intending to wait on her. I was deeply intrigued with this case. Though anyone could see that it was Tiffany's own fault that she had gotten herself into such a mess and probably deserved whatever she got, I wanted to see what Holmes would make of it. She could make a most mundane, _elementary_ affair into quite something to see. Despite all her powers of deduction and intuition, despite her singular ability to discern the smallest clue from the most seemingly unrelated detail, she had a flair for the dramatic like no other person I had ever met. I think the stage lost a fine dramatic actress when Shannon Holmes decided to devote her life to more mysterious pursuits.

Quite frankly, she was a drama queen. Even in her daily life, when not on a case, she could not quite resist the pull of the dramatic. Everything was done with style, with panache, but utterly thought through. She was not capable of being spontaneous whatsoever; even during cases in disguise, everything was calculated to the extreme, planned out so utterly by her precise, methodical mind that it was no wonder to me that she bored so easily. She already knew everything that was going to happen before it occurred. I was always unsure about how much of her almost outrageously Sherlockian attitude and vocabulary was affected, and how much of it was genuine. She definitely found ways to enhance those aspects of her personality—though it was the guitar rather than the violin, and marijuana instead of cocaine (though she wholeheartedly embraced the cigarettes, much to my chagrin, but thankfully not the pipe). Certainly I think most of it was genuine, unconscious even, but sometimes from a wink or a glance she gave me, I knew when she was embellishing for the sake of the client, or sometimes even her own amusement.

Indeed, when she finally showed up at quarter till four, clad in deepest emo-black, with a spiky wig and dramatic, caked-on eyeliner, her thick black eyeglasses, and enough fake piercings to disturb Tommy Lee, I was not surprised. She didn't say a word, but nodded at me and let herself into the room. Five minutes later she opened the door with her normal long, dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, clad in her more usual jeans and university sweatshirt, rubbing at her eyes with makeup remover.

After she finally had all the black out of her eyes and had put her contacts in, she stretched out her long legs on her bed and started to laugh.

"Seriously!" she cried, then was struck again by a fit of giggles, and laughed until she collapsed back on the bed, gasping.

"What!" I demanded.

"Oh, Watson, it's so ridiculous! I have remarked on more than one occasion about how one or two of our cases have paralleled those of my illustrious predecessor, but this is almost absurd."

"I take it you observed Mr. Adams all day, then."

"Of course," she paused to light a cigarette. "I left here at eight this morning dressed as you saw. There is a certain camaraderie amongst these artsy types—they all put on these airs of depression and angst, and bond through their so-called misery. People notice them but basically give them a wide berth, allowing me easy access for observation, especially once _he_ finally roused himself at 10 am to go to the drama building. I followed, naturally, then lounged around a bit outside with some of the other drama students, comparing eyebrow piercings and bumming a cigarette or two."

"What did you find out?"

"The theater lot are a chummy, gossipy bunch, Watson. It was only a few minutes before I was able to casually bring him up. He's got all the girls in an uproar—apparently he's the most attractive Hamlet this side of Jeremy Brett. He's quiet and shy, very courteous and intelligent, so the girls say. He doesn't drink much and skips a lot of the after-parties, too—other than the traditional drink they have at the final dress rehearsal before opening nights. He _has_ been seeing quite a bit of Ophelia's understudy. Her name's Nora Gordon, a law student. She's rather tall and thin, and has very dark hair and big, dark eyes—she's Italian on her mother's side. A champion chess player, she is. Once you get these girls started, they'll tell you anyone's life story. I stood there for a long time listening to biographies of all the stagehands and the lighting director—that bird would keep you up nights, Watson—until I finally begged off, pretending I had class. Really I just ducked into a corner until their little group split up, and when they were all gone, I sat on a bench near the front of the building, alone.

"Then I wondered what to do. Should I go back to Brion Hall and wait to observe Adams' habits more closely, or should I focus on Nora Gordon? As a law student, she might be able to counsel Ian Adams on his rights regarding the picture—_if_ she even knows about it. Has he told her anything? Sorry if my stream-of-consciousness bores you, but I wanted you to see where my mind was up to that time."

"No, it's okay," I replied.

She stubbed out her cigarette, stood up, and began to pace. "I was still trying to decide what to do when a brand-new Mustang pulled up to the curb, so fast that the tires squealed. Out sprang a girl almost as tall as me—legs up to here, flawless makeup, wearing a mini-skirt and stiletto heels.

"She was on her cell phone, chatting away, waving her arms about—clearly agitated. 'Where the hell am I going to find another Guildenstern this close to opening?' she was saying. She disappeared inside the theater, and was not gone more than five minutes before she popped back out again, _sans _cell phone, looked around desperately for a moment, then ran up to me as soon as she spotted me.

"'I suppose you'll do,' she proclaimed, giving me a once-over with a slightly curled lip. 'You're creepy enough. Have you any acting experience?'"

"Oh, Holmes, you didn't!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, Watson, I did. I could hardly pass up this stroke of luck. Of course, Ms. Gordon, who is also the stage manager in addition to being Ophelia's understudy, did not want me for the part of Guildenstern. She promoted someone else for that, and I, in the guise of the person you met earlier, am the Gravedigger."

"Jeez, Holmes. That's good, at least, but don't you think you're pushing it?"

She finally stopped her frantic pacing and stared at me, smiling crookedly. "Watson, you give me no credit whatsoever. Do you have no faith in my acting abilities, my friend?"

"That's not what I—"

"I was a damn good Lady Macbeth in high school, I'll have you know." After dropping that thunderbolt into my lap, she simply waved it away with one thin hand and continued. "Anyway, she dragged me into the theater, where sat all the members of the company—scary lighting director included, assembled around the bedraggled Other Gravedigger, a tall and stern-looking Horatio, and our Hamlet."

"Adams! You met him, then?"

"I did. 'You're a life-saver,' he said to me, positively rushing up to shake my hand. 'Half our crew's down with food poisoning. We're almost all understudies here, and for you to come in at such short notice is fantastic. We can't thank you enough.'

"I mumbled something unintelligible and let myself be led away to study a script. I was then shoved off to be measured for my costume, taken to the makeup chair, and then I practiced my scenes for the next several hours."

She paused to light a cigarette. "I must say, Ian Adams makes a respectable Hamlet. He's quiet tall and broad-shouldered, with a very commanding voice and stage presence—and he _is_ extremely handsome. He has…a very nice face."

She had turned away from me, but I still tried to hide my smile. "This is crazy," I said to her. "All of it. What happened then? What are you going to do?"

"Well, the rehearsal came to an end," she said, turning back to me and flopping down into her inflatable chair, wincing as it hissed yet again. "Everyone milled around a bit, talking. I noticed Gordon and Adams standing near his dressing room, having what seemed to be an animated conversation. Ms. Gordon told her beau that he needed to 'take care of it' and that she was sick of him 'playing this stupid game.'"

"Hmm."

"Yes. It was then that Gertrude and Rosencrantz noticed me watching the two of them. Gertrude said, 'Oh they're at it again. They do this all the time.'

"'What, fight?' I asked.

"'Yeah, constantly. She's been after him for a good long while about something, but we don't know what it is. They shut up as soon as you go near them.'

"Rosencrantz piped in with, '_Something_ sure is rotten in the state of Denmark!' and we laughed, then the conversation moved on to other things. But I am now convinced of something."

"What is that, Holmes?"

She took her time putting out her cigarette before she answered me. When she finally had it ground out in the ashtray and all the ashes out of her fingernails, she turned to me and replied, "I am convinced that Nora Gordon knows all about this indiscreet picture and wants very much for Mr. Adams to destroy it, so much so that their relationship is suffering because he will not do so. I am also convinced that the picture is in that theater."

"It is?"

She held up a finger. "Yes, in his dressing room."

"Are you sure?"

"Think about it," she said, leaning forward in her steadily sinking chair. "His dorm room has been ransacked—twice. His car has been broken into. They have even roughed him up, more than once, and there is no trace of it, so obviously he does not carry it on him. He spends the majority of his time, outside class, at the theater. Unless he has placed it in bank, which I seriously doubt, where else would it be?"

I thought about it logically and had to admit it made sense. It was a gamble; if he had placed it in a safe deposit box all was lost, but we had to take the chance. "So what are you going to do about it?" I asked her.

"Well…" she looked at me very closely, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. When I did not react, she continued to stare at me intently until I realized what she meant. Something must have shown on my face, because she began to smile very slowly.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, matching her smile with my own.

"After we have eaten, will you accompany me to the theater?" She rose from her chair.

"Of course," I replied. "How will I get backstage with you? I assume they don't let just anybody wander around back there."

"I have already taken care of that," she replied, placing four pepperoni hot pockets into her microwave. "You have your _Messenger _credentials handy, I assume?"

"They're over on my desk," I confirmed.

"Good." The microwave dinged. She handed me two of the pockets and a Coke, sat back down in her chair, and took a bite of one of her own. "You are going to attend tonight's dress rehearsal with your friend Aggie Escott, because you have been assigned to write a feature about the play. We'll have to disguise you a bit, give you an alias—" the last part of her sentence was lost in a bite of food.

"I'll carry around a notebook and look official," I offered.

"Yes, perfect," she said with a smile. "You've got it. I will chum up to Adams some more, and the cast—they have a toast in the lead actor's dressing room at the final dress rehearsal before the performance starts. It's a tradition."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Keep an eye on me and wait for my signal, then pull the fire alarm in the hallway between the dressing rooms. In the ensuing chaos, I will get Adams to show me where the picture is hidden—"

"What! Show you where the—"

"Oh, without a doubt. I'm convinced of it. Are you finished eating? We must get ready; it's nearly five-thirty and we have to be at rehearsal by seven."

She threw away her paper plate and soda can and disappeared into the bathroom to don her disguise once more. It actually took her quite some time, so while she was gone I ran next door to my dorm room to grab my press credentials and notebook. That done, I sat back down on her futon to study her _Hamlet_ script, which was already full of her own scribblings and notations.

Holmes finally emerged, resembling a reject from a Good Charlotte video (though I would never tell her this for fear of the horrid scowl I would face), and set to work on me. A lot of people on campus knew my name from my newspaper stories, but few of them outside of the English department had ever actually seen what I looked like. Thus we did not think it was necessary to form as elaborate a disguise as Holmes'. She French-braided my very tightly, so tightly that it raised my eyebrows in perpetual surprise and gave me an instant headache. She dressed me in a simple knee-length black skirt with black stockings and Doc Martens, and a red, slightly moth-eaten wool sweater. I too wore dark, thick eyeliner and mascara, in fitting with the characters we had created, and a pair of non-prescription wire-frame glasses. The contrast between the dark, thick make-up and my whitish-blonde hair and pale skin was quite startling. Holmes was very pleased. I was not. I thought I looked like a demented librarian.

Nobody even took any notice of us as we left Brett Hall. They were used to strange characters coming and going at all hours. No one said anything until we were almost out the door, and even then, it was only Mrs. Johnson saying, "Be careful, girls." Holmes turned around and saluted her. We were off.

We went in the theater through the back door, straight to the backstage. Almost immediately a girl greeted "Aggie" by name, and she introduced her reporter friend "Gloria Scott" to Carrie, a costume designer. She received me warmly, offered me coffee and soft drinks, and warned me to stay away from the catered food. I met several other people very quickly, in a blur of activity; all of them were extremely kind and bought our story instantly—as, indeed, they had no reason not to.

I felt horrible. I have never been a good liar. I knew my first loyalty ought to be to Tiffany, Holmes' client, but unless Ian Adams turned out to be some horrific ogre, that was turning out to be a difficult task.

"Here he comes, Watson," Holmes whispered about ten minutes after we had arrived.

I snapped back to attention. I had been completely absorbed in the controlled chaos of backstage. I had never been in any kind of stage production before. I was fascinated by the sheer amount of people it took to put on a production of this size. I had had no idea. People were everywhere—carrying scenery, getting into makeup, adjusting props, studying lines out loud, moving spotlights, being chewed out by the director, ignoring the giant piles on the food table (someone had even placed one of those old "Mr. Yuck" stickers right over top of the sign advertising the catering company), talking on their cell phones in costume—it was crazy. I was beginning to think that I might get a real story out of this whole thing, after all.

Holmes' words brought my mind back to attention with an almost audible snap. We were standing near the food table, but I turned to see a tall figure striding down the hall toward us, all confidence, poise, and complete ease.

She had not done him justice. He was radiant, utterly resplendent in his Hamlet costume. He was a good three inches taller than Holmes, who was six-foot-one herself. I could tell that he had dark, piercing eyes, even from several feet away. His dark hair was shaven almost completely; his skin was a nearly flawless coffee brown. Branaugh had nothing on him. Forget Ralph Fiennes and Alan Rickman; even Holmes' beloved Jeremy Brett had nothing on this guy. He was gorgeous.

Holmes let out a noise that may have been a laugh. "You are impressed, Watson?"

"You are the mistress of understatement, Holmes," I whispered back.

She turned and smiled that crooked smile at me again. "He is handsome, yes, and I know how you get with the good-looking ones, my friend. But remember, even 'the de'il hath power/T'assume a pleasing shape.'"

"And I suppose we will be the ones to 'give the devil his due?'"

"Precisely," her eyes positively danced. "Ah, he comes."

"Hi, Aggie," Ian Adams said, with a smile that was at least 1,000 watts bright. He even had beautiful _teeth_. I was feeling distinctly strange in my knees. Oh, he was still talking, wasn't he?

"We were wondering where you got off to," he was saying to Holmes.

"Oh, just a few things to do; you know how it is," Holmes replied, smiling radiantly back at him. How she managed to do this with the fake ring in her lip I have no idea. Her voice had become several octaves higher than it usually was. She had also added a bit of a Scottish brogue to her normal clipped accent. I was amused. Was I about to witness the rarest of the rare—Shannon Holmes _flirting_ with a man?

"This is my friend, Gloria Scott," Holmes was saying. "She writes for the _Messenger_."

"Great to meet you, Gloria," Ian Adams replied, turning that killer smile to me and shaking my hand vigorously. I tried not to wince, nor to break the equally vigorous eye contact he was making with me, either. "I hope you'll write good things about us."

I swallowed. He had a really deep, smooth, masculine voice—like honey wine. "I'll sure try."

He laughed. "Well, they want me in wardrobe, so I'll see you both later. Don't forget, we have a toast in my dressing room just before we go on. It's the last dress rehearsal before the show starts. We save the really good stuff for opening night, of course, but tradition is tradition."

"Of course, sounds great!" Holmes squeaked. I had to stifle a laugh. "See you there."

He smiled once again and walked away.

"Watson, if I had known how much you were utterly undone by a pretty male face, I would have left you at home," Holmes chided, in her normal voice, when Ian was out of earshot.

"_Me_?" I was incredulous. "Holmes, you were…grotesque."

She laughed. "Probably. I am out of practice. The male sex is _your_ department, Watson, as I have said more than once. But even I was not drooling all over him."

"Oh, I wasn't _that_ bad," I blushed.

Her smile was fleeting. "Yes, I don't suppose Mr. Morgan has anything to worry about, does he? Good. Stay alert, and wait for my signal. It's time for my makeup."

With that I was on my own for a while. I walked around taking notes, talking with anyone who would speak with me. The vast majority of people was completely open to talking to me, happy to interview and definitely excited to be there. I talked to principal actors including Ian Adams himself, several stagehands, the whole costume department, several makeup artists, two of the drama professors involved in the production, the creepy lighting director, and Nora Gordon, who was equally as friendly as her boyfriend.

Right before eight o'clock someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and almost gasped. It was Holmes, made up in her Gravedigger's outfit. She looked, in a word, ghastly. They had enhanced "Aggie's" Goth makeup and placed her in a strange sort of black robe. They were going for a really claustrophobic, creepy feel to the graveyard scene, she said. Well, it was going to work, I thought. They had even used some kind of red, bloody makeup to emphasize the long-healed scars on her face, hands, and arms, which she normally took great pains to cover up. I was deeply surprised she had let them do this and was about to remark upon it when someone called the actors together. It was time for the toast.

"Come on and watch, Gloria," Nora Gordon called to me, as we walked down the hall toward Ian Adams' dressing room. "It will be an interesting part of your story."

"Sure," I replied, nervously.

Everyone gathered into the room. It was not really an elaborate dressing room; there was actually just a beat-up vanity and an ancient-looking couch with four huge posts attached to it. The couch looked like a relic and apparently smelled like one too; I saw one girl sit down, make a face, and jump up quickly, preferring to stand.

There were so many people standing in the room that most of them spilled out into the hallway. I managed to get away from Nora Gordon and position myself outside the door, behind the throng of people, but not before noticing Holmes finangle herself right up front next to Adams. Next to the radiant prince of Denmark she looked like a goddess of darkness.

"Well, here we are again, last dress rehearsal before the big opening night on Friday," Ian Adams began. I could not see him at all, but his voice carried well out into the hallway. "We've had some bumps and bruises along the way," he continued. Everyone laughed.

Someone handed me a beer and I smiled at him.

"We've eaten some really crappy food, too!" someone yelled from across the room.

"Boo!" another voice called.

Everyone laughed again, Adams loudest of all. I inched closer to the door, until I could just see Holmes standing next to him, smiling widely. Again I felt a pang of regret for what we were doing to these people, for deceiving them like this. I tried to harden my soul, to remind myself that Ian Adams, at least, deserved this. Tiffany might well be a vapid, ridiculous person, but she was our client and it was our duty to prevent any further harm from coming to her. This meant securing the picture at any cost.

"But we've made some great new friends, too," Adams continued, looking sideways at Holmes and sliding an arm around her shoulders. I nearly fainted. "And to me, that's what this whole thing is about. That might sound really lame, and you can all take the piss out of me if you want to—"

"We will!" the food heckler called, causing everyone to break up again.

"Seriously! I don't know anywhere else that I've ever felt like I belonged, other than the theater, with people like you guys. Where else can a six-foot-four dude from inner-city Boston fit in?"

That got another laugh. Adams let go of Holmes. I did not imagine the very slight step she took away from him. Even her acting abilities had their limits, it seemed. Ian Adams raised his glass in the air—no crappy beer for the principal players, I noticed. Everyone raised his or her drinks, Holmes and myself included.

"And so, I toast you all. To you, my friends, and to the Bard, wherever he is. Let us hope our performance does him justice. And if it doesn't, who cares, he's been dead four hundred years."

Adams tipped his glass and drank, to cheers and applause. Just as the glass reached his lips, Holmes gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. No one paid the least bit of attention to me as they finished the toast. I slipped back behind the gathered people, spotted the fire alarm, and after a miniscule hesitation, pulled it.

There is no other word: the thing _blared_. I was momentarily disoriented, and, fearing permanent hearing damage, ducked into a dressing room without looking and nearly fell onto a half-dressed couple in complete disarray on a couch even more decrepit than Ian Adams'.

"Uh…sorry…" I stammered. "There's um, a fire."

I did not wait for their response but hustled back out of the room and nearly ran headlong into Nora Gordon.

"Gloria!" she shouted over the still-shrieking alarm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I uh…where's the way out?" I managed.

"This way," she said, pointing to where the rest of the huge crowd of people was going out of a tiny door. "If I find out who pulled that, I'm going to kill them."

Chaos reigned for the next twenty minutes, as everyone in the entire theater was evacuated. The fire department arrived, swept through the building, and left an hour later looking extremely annoyed.

Holmes and Ian Adams were two of the last people to emerge from the building. Adams looked upset and immediately headed for Nora Gordon. Holmes slowly made her way over to me, looking like a very creepy cat that had swallowed a canary.

"Don't tell me," I said.

"Oh yes, Watson, he showed me _exactly_ where it is. After rehearsal we shall formulate our plan."

We went back inside. The entire incident was blamed on Arnie, the lighting director of dubious reputation, who was not believed despite his vehement denials. The rehearsal went on from there without incident, and at midnight, Holmes and I began to walk home.. I demanded to know what went on in the room after I pulled the alarm.

Holmes was positively glowing beneath all her horrid white makeup. "Oh, you were just _splendid_, Watson," she said, when we were a few blocks away and finally clear of people. "That was wonderful. Everything is going to be all right."

"Do you have the picture?"

"No, but I know exactly where it is."

"How did you manage that?" I asked incredulously. As we walked I had begun to let down my poor hair. My head actually ached from having it pulled back so tightly.

"He showed me, like I said he would."

I stopped and stared at her. "I have no idea what you mean, Holmes."

She laughed and took my arm to start me walking again. "It's one of the oldest tricks around, Watson. Any thought that the building might actually be on fire would send him running for anything valuable within the room. It is quite possible in a theater of that size with their lighting equipment and such—and students running it, no less—that they sometimes do have fire scares. He did not disappoint me. Literally as soon as you pulled the alarm he instinctively reached for the newel post on that rather lurid couch—"

I gasped.

"Yes. He did not actually remove the thing, but looked up sharply and exchanged a look with Miss Gordon, who proclaimed, 'oh just relax; it's just someone screwing around' and stomped out of the room. He then looked at me and shrugged, turned around, and went after her."

"So now what?"

"We come back here tomorrow, with Tiffany, and remove it. We will come during the daytime, while Adams has class, so he will not be here. Most people will be in class, actually, so it should be clear for us to get in here."

We had reached Brett Hall and stopped so she could fish her ID card out of one of the many zippered pockets on her pants. She found it and started to insert it into the electronic lock, but stopped abruptly as a group of sorority girls walked behind us, laughing. They took no notice of us, but kept going, holding each other up. A lone car drove past. She did not move.

"Holmes? What are you doing?"

"Listening," she said quietly.

"For _what_?"

She looked at me sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching sideways. "Nothing," she said, rubbing at the makeup that covered her scarred left cheek. She slid her card into the slot and we went upstairs to our rooms and to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I thank Arthur Conan Doyle for the inspiration. It deviates, I promise. Anything you recognize, I don't own but love shamelessly.

A Scandal in Academia 

**Chapter Three**

We were in Holmes' room at about noon the next day, eating toaster struedels when Tiffany burst in and rushed at Holmes, grasped her by either arm and looked eagerly into her eyes.

Holmes wrenched her hands out of Tiffany's so quickly that she upset the glass of orange juice on the table beside her. Tiffany took no notice even as I jumped up with a towel to clean it up. "Do you really have it?" the girl fairly shouted.

"Sorry, Watson. Not yet, Tiffany."

"But you will?" Tiffany pressed.

"I will."

'Well, can we go now?" There was a petulant whine in the girl's voice that was really beginning to annoy me. She was definitely used to getting her own way.

"By all means," Holmes replied, the very definition of patience.

The three of us left the dorm and began to walk to the theater.

"He has a girlfriend, you know," I said to Tiffany.

She snorted. "Ian has a lot of girlfriends."

"Then why are you so concerned?" Holmes asked, a trace of irritation at last showing in her voice. "If he doesn't love you, what incentive does he even have to keep this picture? Why would he really care that you're getting married?"

"Spite," she replied, snorting again. "He wants to ruin me and make my life miserable. We ended very badly."

Ian Adams had not struck me as the spiteful type—quite the opposite, in fact—but then, I had only known him about five hours, so I said nothing.

We had reached the theater. No one stopped us from going backstage. Someone knew Tiffany and shouted hello. No one recognized Holmes or me, but no one stopped us as we made our way toward the dressing rooms, either.

Ian Adams' room was open. Carrie, the costume girl from last night, was sitting on his couch, doing, of all things, needlepoint. She looked up when she saw us enter the room and smiled broadly. "I'm guessing you're Shannon Holmes?" she asked, pointing at Holmes.

"However did you guess," Holmes said, utterly without feeling.

The girl squinted, shaking her head. "Yeah, I can see Aggie in there, if I just picture you with glasses, a little more makeup, and without that perpetual glower on your face. Damn, you even seem _taller_."

Holmes allowed a corner of her mouth to twitch briefly. "Hello, Carrie," she said. "Yes, it's not much fun for a person of my height to stoop down for hours at a time. I suppose Ian is in class?"

"Oh, yes. He expected you, you know," Carrie replied.

"Yes, I know."

"You _do_?" I said, lost.

"Oh god, then it's over," Tiffany announced, collapsing onto the couch. Dust actually sprang up in her wake. "What am I going to do?"

Holmes did not answer her, but reached past Carrie's shoulder to the newel post of the green couch. To my surprise, it screwed right off. Inside was a manila envelope, rolled into a tube shape, with Holmes' name on the front. We three stood and read it together as Carrie smirked and sat down on the couch again to stare at us.

"MY DEAR MISS SHANNON HOLMES—

You really did it very well. Of course, I knew from the beginning who

you and your friend 'Gloria Scott' (yes, hello to you too, Miss Watson)

were, and who you were working for. Did you think that an actor would

not recognize another actor? Granted, you are good, and your talent for

disguise is quite amazing, I will admit, but did you really underestimate

me so much? I am a student of literature as well as theater. Your own

client is doing _The Sign of Four_ in another theater. I suspect you took all

of this into consideration and knew exactly how it would all turn out

before it ever began. You are admirably clever. You did fool the rest of

the production. The cast and crew is quite taken with 'Aggie Escott,'

though I can guess it may amuse them to find out that they were actually

being duped by Shannon Holmes. I do hope you will finish your part in

our production of _Hamlet_. I know the cast would hate to see you go, and

it would be very inconvenient to have to find yet another actor this late in

the game.

As for Tiffany, you have absolutely nothing to worry about from me. I

want nothing more to do with you or your childish games. I kept the

picture as a way to protect myself from you—with Miss Holmes' word,

I know I will not have to do that anymore. I have destroyed the photo and

the negatives. I wish you luck with your Mr. Lothman.

To Miss Holmes, I only again wish to say once more that I am a student of

literature. I too have read 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' So you don't have to

ask, I'll leave a picture of myself as a memento. I know you'll treasure it

forever. It will warm my heart to imagine that you may place this picture

on your mantle, and think of me as _the_ man. Will you? Or are you so

much like your _illustrious predecessor_ that you cannot allow yourself to

give in to such emotions? I hope not, for you are the rarest of the rare

among women. You are a beautiful girl who does not know that she is

beautiful; a rare flower among weeds whose intellect surpasses even the

appeal of your quiet grace and beauty. I should not like to be your

adversary; should we ever cross paths again, I very much hope to call you

'friend.' I remain, dear Miss Shannon Holmes, very truly yours,

IAN ADAMS"

Holmes snatched up the letter, folded it, and shoved it into her pocket, turning away from us and clearing her throat before saying in a crisp tone, "I suppose it's over, though not exactly in the way we would have liked."

Tiffany was looking at Holmes in a very strange, almost gentle way. "No, it's fine. The picture has been destroyed; he said it himself and I trust his word absolutely. That's the most satisfying conclusion there could be."

I had the envelope containing the picture Adams had mentioned. I pulled it out slowly, to find a glossy 8 x 10 that had been taken in this very room, seemingly the night before. All the principle players from the _Hamlet _production were in the picture, with Ian Adams in the middle, looking gloriously handsome as usual, with one arm around Nora Gordon in Ophelia costume on his right, and Holmes-as-Aggie-Escott-as-Gravedigger on his left, that arm draped lazily about her shoulders as if they were old friends instead of new acquaintances. Holmes-Aggie was smiling widely, looking less scary in the creepy makeup surrounded by all the other smiling faces.

I felt Tiffany at my elbow, looking at the picture. I handed it to her. "He actually is a really good guy," she admitted. "We're just on different levels."

"From what I have seen of the man," Holmes said. "He seems to be on a very different level than you." Her voice was pure ice and she did not even look at Tiffany, but held her hand out for the photo. Tiffany slowly gave it to her.

"Is there something I can do to reward you for all of this?" Tiffany asked.

Holmes thought a moment, then gave a short laugh. "Yes, you can do Watson's laundry. She is severely behind."

I could feel myself blushing as the smile disappeared from Tiffany's face for a fraction of a second, then reappeared even bigger than before. "Okay, sure," she said. She reached out and shook my hand, glanced at Holmes, and thought better of it. She said good-bye to the two of us and Carrie, and left the room.

Holmes glanced at her watch. "I have class in thirty minutes. I had better go and get ready. Carrie, will you please tell Mr. Adams that Aggie will be here in time for the show tonight?"

"'Aggie' will?" Carrie asked.

"Yes, well…I suppose, _Holmes_ will," she said.

"Sure thing," Carrie replied, smiling.

"Thank you."

We left the theater. Holmes was very quiet. She walked very slowly, staring down at her shoes, and held the envelope with the picture and the letter in a vise-grip in her hands. Usually at the completion of a case she was on a high for a couple of days before slipping into her usual gloom and introspection. What made this one different? Was it the letter? Had Adams' words really affected her that much?

"Holmes? Are you all right?" I asked, tentatively. I was fully prepared for her to, at the very least, wave me off, or hit me with some sort of scathing remark. Instead she surprised me.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, quite gently, with a sad smile. "Things did not turn out the way I expected, but…"

"Is it the letter?" I ventured. "The things he said?"

"Uh—"

"Because, you know, Holmes, he's right. You don't give yourself enough credit. You should—"

She actually stopped on the sidewalk and stared at me. "My dear Watson," she said. "Have you forgotten who you are talking to? Do you really think that _I_ would be so distracted by flowery words and pretty flattery? By—by _drivel_? That's what it was…_drivel_. He was good, I will give him that, but not wholly original. Having a familiarity with my literary obsessions is not sufficient enough to truly impress me."

"If you say so, Holmes."

It was not that I did not believe what she said, but there was just something about her whole attitude concerning the situation that rang false to me. He _had_ gotten to her, I suspected, but it was as Adams himself had said: she would not _allow _herself to give in to it. I would not press the matter with her, as it would only make her angry. Whatever had happened to her to cause this suppression of her emotions, of her _self_ (and indeed, though by this point we had been friends for quite sometime, she still had not told me exactly what had caused her scars, both obvious and unseen, though I knew small bits of it), was forceful enough to do permanent damage to our friendship if I were to continue to make her speak about things that made her uncomfortable.

Fortunately I knew this—and she knew that I knew this, and was, I suspect, grateful for both my friendship and my sensitivity. She smiled briefly, and then, linking her arm through mine, walked back to our dorm.

Despite her words, she did place the photo in a frame on her desk. She also went back to the theater that night, and for the next week, playing the Gravedigger every night until the play was over. She saw Ian Adams, but there was none of the easy camaraderie or flirting between them as there had been between Adams and Aggie Escott. Eventually the play was over, but somehow I suspected that this would not be the last we saw of Ian Adams.

Tiffany did my laundry for a whole month. I don't think my clothes have ever been so clean and pressed (I also called Mark Morgan, who was, if I may say, very happy to hear from me). Tiffany and Adams gave each other no more trouble; in fact, when she married Claude Lothman the next summer, Adams sent them a bouquet of flowers and his good wishes.

And that was how a mini-scandal threatened the reputation of the Lothman department store empire, and how Shannon Holmes' plans were defeated by an actor's wit. When she speaks of Ian Adams, or refers to his photograph, she does it reverently, with humor and respect, but she has never quite given him the title of "_the_ man."

The End.

Holmes and Watson will return… 


End file.
